


Sansa Laughs

by sunkelles



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: ASoIaF Kink Meme, Character Study, Do not interpret this as romantic, F/F, Femslash, I do not intend that, I don't even ship this, Like Hannibal and Will or something, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Not Romance, Other than a sort of dark fasciniation, This is not suppose to be romantic, i don't know what this is, please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 17:22:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2278257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunkelles/pseuds/sunkelles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re not a wolf,” Cersei says as she touches the girl’s cheek, “You’re just my little dove, singing all my songs.” Sansa doesn’t say anything in response, and Cersei wraps her arms around the girl’s small, naked form, maybe taking more comfort from the embrace than she should.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sansa Laughs

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to reassert two things here: there is non-graphic rape in this story. I'm not sugar-coating it and calling it dubcon because it's not. The consent is not dubious; it does not exist. Period.  
> Also, I do not intend on this story being romantic. I wish to convey this to begin with. PLEASE DO NOT INTERPRET THIS AS A ROMANCE! 
> 
> Okay I am done. Now I can go to hell with a clean conscience.
> 
> Also, I ended up seeing that this pretty much fit this prompt on the kink meme so yeah that's a thing.
> 
> Prompt:  
> And this child I would destroy  
> For I hold her pain most dear  
> \- My Medea, Vienna Teng

Things have gotten easier, after the first time. There isn’t much defiance left in the little Stark girl. Cersei no longer has to threaten her with gifting her to the guards or parading her around naked in front of the court. She comes when Cersei calls, drops to her knees when her queen commands it, and laps until she climaxes. Cersei will just sit on the bed, raise up her skirts, and then her little dove does the rest.

"This is your place," Cersei says, digging her finger nails into Sansa’s thick hair. The girl's still gorgeous, maybe even more so, when she's on her knees. Sansa’s tongue laps at that area that makes her go mad, and Cersei groans.   
“You’re getting better at this,” Cersei says, a hint of affection in her tone, “My little dove can do more than sing her songs.” Sansa does not respond, only flicks her tongue quicker inside Cersei, and the queen does not even try to suppress the noises she makes in response. She tugs at the girl’s head harder as she can feel herself reaching her peak, and she screams as she does. Sansa rises from her knees and wipes the juices from her face to meet Cersei’s eyes.

“May I go now, Your Grace?” she asks. There is a sort of ice there, and Cersei almost laughs. Her little dove still has some fight left in her. Cersei drops her skirts.

“Run along, little dove,” she says, “But I expect you again tomorrow night. At the same time.” Sansa curtsies, but Cersei can see the glare she’s trying to suppress. The queen lets the smirk cross her lips as the girl exits her chambers.

* * *

 

                                                                            

If the Tyrells think that they can steal her hostage away from right under her nose, they don’t understand the power the Lannisters hold. Cersei does not necessarily want to wed the girl to her brother, a term she uses loosely, but she needs to show that they are one step ahead of the Tyrells, and of course, keep the girl for her claim to Winterfell. Being able to cause the girl more grief is only an added bonus.

* * *

 

 

Cersei calls for her three nights after the wedding, and vaguely wonders whether or not the Imp bedded her. But then she decides that she doesn’t care much either way. It won’t change anything. Her dove will still come when she calls, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. She’s queen regent, and he’s no longer the Hand of the King. He’s just Master of Coin, a laughable position. Tyrion can’t stop her, and neither can Sansa.  
“You’re not a wolf,” Cersei says as she touches the girl’s cheek, “You’re just my little dove, singing all my songs.” The girl doesn’t say anything in response, and Cersei wraps her arms around the girl’s small, naked form, maybe taking more comfort from the embrace than she should.

* * *

 

 

  
Today, Cersei finally has the information that will make her break, make her shatter between her fingers. She will finally defeat the lovely girl the way that she could never defeat Lyanna Stark, even as a memory. 

The Red Wedding is over and done with, and Northern Rebellion is as dead as Sansa’s brother and mother. The Freys floated Catelyn’s bloody corpse down the river and tied the Young Wolf’s direwolf’s head onto his shoulders.

When she tells Sansa, her face remains impassive. Apparently, the little dove has learned from her time in King’s Landing, but the tears prickling at her eyelids give away her true feelings. Cersei smiles at this, taking a sick delight in the girl’s sorrows.

Cersei smiles at her and runs her fingers through the girl’s deep auburn hair in a display of mocking affection.

“There’s no one left to save you,” Cersei says softly, “Your father, your mother, your traitor brother, your little sister, and even your baby brothers: they’re all dead. And you’re not a Stark anymore.” Sansa meets her eyes then, and there is as much defiance in her Tully blue eyes as she can stifle through the tears.

“And you’re not a Lannister, either,” the queen says in distaste, “my hideous brother does not deserve to bear that name. No, you’re just my broken little bird.” Cersei guides the girl’s head lower, and there’s a look of pure hatred in the girl’s eyes. But there’s fear too, and the girl bends her head down between Cersei’s legs and begins her work.

 _A younger and more beautiful queen,_ Cersei thinks with a hint of humor as she starts to loose herself in her pleasure. Cersei can’t believe that she ever feared the girl.

* * *

 

The actual ceremony is uneventful, but the wedding feast is everything that a royal feast should be. Extravagant, and sure to show off the power and wealth of the two houses, though the crown’s bank account is nearly run dry by it. The singers are all bootlickers, as the Rains of Castamere is played as often as possible. The dancing bear is as entertaining as one might presume a dancing bear to be, and the feast goes off without a hitch until her son has his gift for Sansa Stark brought out.

* * *

 

 

Joffrey is grinning as widely as he’s ever grinned as he grasps Robb Stark’s rotting head by its auburn curls. He’s smiling as if it’s the funniest thing in the world. Cersei can’t say that she disagrees, but the hall has gone deathly silent.

“I told you that I’d give you his head,” Joffrey declares, and the entire hall is shocked silent.

 _Good_ , Cersei thinks, _they will know to fear him. The way that they fear my father._ Sansa stiffens, but she does not scream or yell. She does nothing at all. Joff seems disappointed by this. Margaery seems terrified as she sits in her own chair.

 _Good,_ Cersei thinks. Tyrion is clenching his jaw, just barely stifling the angry retort he’s surely thinking.

“I think that you ought to kiss it,” Joff drawls. Everyone who did not previously look appalled or mortified now changes their tune. Tyrion rises to his feet.

“I think that you’ve had your fun,” he says, and Cersei can tell that he’s barely holding himself in check. Cersei hopes that he will let his tongue get away from him. Maybe then father will finally let her take off his head.

Sansa stands slowly, and takes a tentative step away from her chair. She’s clutching at her dress, and walks slowly towards her king.

“Sansa,” Tyrion says frantically, “you don’t have to do this.” Sansa shakes her head.

“Clearly the king is a bit drunk,” he says, trying to turn this into a jape, but he won’t succeed, “Surely we can put this behind us and laugh about it in the morning? And by this, I do mean the head.”

Joff glares at his little uncle.

“Be quiet, uncle,” he says with a bite to his words, “I want Sansa to kiss the Young Wolf.” The crowd is still frozen as Sansa closes the gap between herself and the king.

 _The little dove didn’t even put up a fight,_ Cersei thinks, and there’s a sort of satisfaction in it. The wolves are all gone now. Sansa’s clutching to her dress, and she’s shaking all over, but that’s to be expected. Cersei finds a bit of joy in it to be honest.

Sansa is not even a foot away from her son now, the traitor’s head the only thing separating them, and she has not even ceased clutching her dress.

“Your Grace,” Sansa says. There is something off in her tone, it is too sanguine to be genuine, and it sends a chill through the queen regent.

“You’ve forgotten; I am a wolf as well.” And Sansa moves as quick as an arrow does when released from a bow, stabbing into Joffrey’s chest multiple times. Robb Stark’s head falls forgotten to the ground, and Joff’s cries barely register to her ears before she realizes that the girl is killing him. The guests are erupting into a panic. Some are fleeing. Some are screaming, and some seem to have no idea what is going on.

“Guards!” she screams, but they are already descending onto the culprit. Sansa keeps stabbing as they try to claw her away, and she laughs as she does. The knife, an average knife everyone at the feast used to cut their meat, falls from her hands in a bloodied mess as Sansa Stark laughs and laughs.

If Cersei were more herself, she might be able to see the sweet irony of Sansa’s revenge: a brutal murder at a wedding in exchange for the terrible travesty of a wedding that the Lannisters helped organize. And she might be able to see that the girl would never have acted against him had he not paraded around with her brother’s rotting head. But Cersei is not herself. Her son lies dying on the ground, and Sansa Stark is cackling like a woman gone mad, as mad as Catelyn Stark went in her final moments.

 _Like mother like daughter_ , Cersei thinks bitterly. Joffrey is grasping the stab wounds, but they’re too deep. He’ll die of blood loss no matter what happens. Her son is dying.   
Sansa’s laughing and laughing and laughing and Cersei wants nothing more than to snap her pretty little neck. 

“Take her to the dungeons, you fools!” Cersei shouts, and the guards drag her away as she laughs.

* * *

 

 

Her son is dead and his killer is in the dungeons. Cersei does not think that it is justice, because Joff is still dead. But the dungeons are dark and dank and Cersei needs to know what she can.  
“Why did you do it?” Cersei demands. Sansa just smiles. 

  
“Can’t you guess?” She asks defiantly, and Cersei can. It does not take a prodigy to guess why Sansa murdered her son. Not when everything has been taken from her: her family, her virtue, her name, her dignity, and then Joff almost forced her to kiss her brother’s rotting head. This, of course, does not make Cersei forgive her. Sansa- for she is Sansa now, not a little dove but a wolf, has taken her son from her. And a Lannister always pays her debts.

  
“I’m going to take your head off,” Cersei promises, “on the steps of the Sept. The same way Joff took your father’s.” Sansa doesn’t even flinch, and Cersei wonders if the madness she showed at the wedding is just hiding beneath her skin, waiting for the proper time to break out. 

  
“It’s a pity that you killed my direwolf,” Sansa drawls, “or you could have sewed her head on my body afterward.” Cersei stares at the girl for a moment, not even recognizing her as the one that she met in Winterfell. Her eyes are ice now, hollow, hollow ice. Cersei did that, and no matter what, she will always be a bit proud of it. And for a moment, she’s Cersei’s beautiful little dove again, as demure in her bed as she is everywhere else.

But then Sansa starts to laugh with that emotionless expression still on her face. And in that moment, she is a wolf again, and Cersei’s little bird is gone. All that’s left are the icy eyes and the terrible, piercing laughter. Cersei is glad that her head will roll soon. Then she will not have to look at her face. And maybe, the laughter in her head will finally stop ringing.

* * *

 

  
Sansa Stark’s head falls to the ground and Cersei feels blood splatter across her dress. It is Lannister crimson, so the bloodstains will not show. Sansa Stark is dead. She is dead, but Cersei can still feel her claws tearing at her insides, her cackling laughter, and her tongue between her legs. She wonders if Sansa will always haunt her, the way that Lyanna haunted her husband. 

  
Cersei shutters as she looks at the wolf woman’s head, her dead Tully eyes starting right at her.

In that moment, Cersei knows that it’s true; Sansa Stark will never stop haunting her.

**Author's Note:**

> So for my first asoiaf fic I wrote this. 
> 
> I dunno how I feel about this.


End file.
